


The Same Coin

by ColorInPlatinum



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Choking, M/M, Nightmares, Parallels, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8364436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorInPlatinum/pseuds/ColorInPlatinum
Summary: goodnight robicheaux has nightmares because of the blood on his hands. so does billy rocks.





	1. Goodnight

They've been traveling together for at least three months now. With Robicheaux hyping up the drunken crowds of dust-covered men at quick-draw competitions, Billy's pockets are heavy for the first time in his life, and he's grateful to the theatrical man sleeping soundly a few feet from him.

Goodnight doesn't always sleep soundly, but tonight seems to be one of those rare nights. The embers from the dying fire barely illuminate the campsite, the sliver of the moon contributing nothing to Billy's vision. The stars above him are just as overwhelming now as they were decades ago, on the Californian shores as a child, staring up and dreaming of his homeland. He wonders briefly is Goodnight ever has the same feeling, daydreaming about Baton Rouge when he should be sleeping.

Finally, Billy lets his eyes fall shut, and it feels like he's out in half a second. His dreams are nothing, and they do not disturb him tonight.

But something else does.

Being awoken by the sound of Goodnight's soft mumbles is not uncommon, Billy has learned. He sits up in his makeshift bed, listening to Goodnight as he speaks to men who aren't there. He can hardly make out most of it, and small bits of words like "on the left" and "get down" are all he catches. Goodnight seems fairly calm, despite this. Billy doesn't do anything but listen for now.

Almost as if on cue, as if to spite Billy's waning concern, Goodnight lets out a scream, as if someone reached inside him to rip his innards out. Billy is on his feet, straddling Robicheaux with a fluid, practiced ease that he's only had to use a handful of times over the last few months. He whispers Goodnight's name, tries to assure the man trapped in his own memories that everything is fine, pins his wrists to the desert floor to keep him from hurting either of them--and then Goodnight's eyes tear open.

Blue eyes, usually so calm and glittering, laced with a sadness long-sown, are wild and crazed. The man thrashes beneath Billy like a wild animal, screaming, "You goddamn Union sonuvabitch, get the hell offa me or I'll rip you to pieces, let me go!"

Billy finds himself scared; not for himself, but for Goodnight. He's never seen the man like this, not even during a waking spell in the midst of a firefight, where Billy has to wrangle the rifle from his hands to finish the job. He opens his mouth to say something, remind Goodnight that the war is over and he's safe, but in an instant, he's on his back and Goodnight's hands are wrapped around his throat.

It's only been three months, but Billy's heart shatters when he feels the air stop flowing. He trusted Robicheaux with his life, his secrets, his talents, and the man is strangling him in the middle of a desert with such intensity in his eyes that Billy wonders if this whole nightmare spiel was just a front to get Billy's defenses down. He reaches desperately for his knife belt, just barely out of reach.

"You know who I am?!" Goodnight roars above him, spittle flying from his lips like a rabid dog. "I am the Angel of Death! You look me in the eyes! I wanna see you die!"

 _He's going to kill me,_ Billy thinks, and finally wraps his fingers around the hilt of a silver blade. Weakened by the lack of oxygen and losing consciousness, he can only shakily hold the knife in front of him, the tip pointed at Robicheaux's side but unable to drive it through. The dying light of the fire glints off the polished metal, and something snaps within Goodnight.

Just as the blade wobbles and falls from Billy's grasp, Goodnight's hands fly back from the man's throat. Billy gasps and gulps down air like he's never tasted it before. His eye are bloodshot from the experience, and once he's regained his bearings, he snatches up the knife and skitters away from Goodnight, the blade held before him in a clear warning: _don't come closer._

Goodnight, on the other hand, is staring blankly at his hands like it's the first time he's seeing them, apparently oblivious to Billy's panic and fear. Those big blue eyes of his are dropping globs of tears and the more they come, the harder he shakes. Billy realizes quickly that Goodnight is no longer a threat to him, and he approaches the man cautiously, his blade still held white-knuckled in his hand.

"Robicheaux," he says, his voice steely. Goodnight flinches at the sound, though Billy can't tell if it's because of the name or the tone or both. "What was that?"

That's all it takes, apparently. Goodnight's body heaves forward and he lets out a sob that Billy's sure can be heard on the other side of the desert. Billy, against his better judgement, drops his knife and grabs Goodnight's shoulders, pulling him up. Goodnight flinches away, but Billy insistently wraps his arms around the shaking man, one hand sinking into Goodnight's sleep-tangled hair to keep him close. Despite the bruises he'll have by dawn, Billy knows he's not the wounded party here.

"I'm so sorry, Billy," Goodnight whimpers, and Billy shushes him, partially because he doesn't know what to say, and partially because of his damaged throat. No words need be exchanged, they both know it.

Four hours later, they're awoken by the sun rising over the hills. Neither can remember when they fell asleep, but they're tucked under their combined blankets and coats, Goodnight's arms locked tight around Billy's torso, the latter's hands resting gently on his back. The bruises have formed on Billy's throat, as predicted, an ugly reddish-purple that makes Goodnight look away in shame when he sees them. Billy is sure to tie a bandana around his neck to cover them for his companion's sake.

They take a rabbit, skinned the night before for dinner, and finish it off for breakfast, then pack up their camp and ride off into nowhere again. As usual, the day is filled with Goodnight's flamboyant stories of ill repute, and with Billy's occasional two-word interjections that leave Goodnight spooking his horse from laughter. The only difference this time is that Goodnight never looks back at Billy, a silent statement telling him that the man could turn tail and leave whenever he pleases.

Billy, upon realizing this, nudges his heels into his horse's side, falling step with Goodnight. The man next to him tilts his head in question, and Billy only smirks before snapping the reigns on his horse to speed forward. Though his throat is burning from the night before, he looks back and calls, "Keep up, old man!"

Goodnight's smile is genuine as he urges his steed forward, laughing in earnest with his companion.

Words need not be spoken, despite how much the two rely on them. Billy doesn't need to tell Goodnight that he's safe, and Goodnight doesn't have to thank Billy for keeping it that way.

They just know.


	2. Billy

When Billy dreams, it's of thick blackness. Soft, like velvet, but all-consuming and overwhelming. When the cocoon of black around his dissolves, he only remembers--in vivid detail.

His dreams always wake him, though never as violently as Goodnight's. Usually he'll blink awake, teary-eyed, and spend the remainder of the night smoking an opium cigarette or drinking from Goodnight's flask at the edge of camp, an ear always open for his partner's own demons.

Billy has been haunted by demons since the day his family landed in California. It was 1841 and he was a bright-eyed nine year old waiting for opportunity to knock on his door, like _abaeoji_ promised. Instead he was met with slurs, slaps, poverty--all doubled in his dreams.

He supposes he could call them nightmares, but he would never think to call them such when Goodnight suffers from something much worse than a sour memory.

Tonight, Goodnight is watching the camp. They never sleep in shifts unless one of them is having night terrors or if someone is after them. Luckily, it's the latter tonight. Billy settles under his blankets and Goody's coat (the man's own insistence) and quickly drifts off to sleep.

Tonight, when the blackness engulf him, it's not soft or warm. It's inky, oily, curling around him like the smoke of a shared cigarette. It's suffocating. When it fades, he is once again faced with the bright, saturated world of Vincent Claude Gunning's foyer. Gunning, the man who paid him to be a slave. Gunning, the man who owned a plantation of white cotton and black folk, all of which were good. Gunning, the man who turned his cotton red and punished the slaves for the whip marks on their backs. Gunning, the man who paid Billy to be his toy.

He has the scars to prove what the tyrant did to him. Thick whip marks on his back, similar but not as numerous as the laborers' own; burns across his arms, in neat circles; a taste for whiskey and bourbon, where he had only tasted _m_ _akgeolli_ in his father's tea.

When Billy turns his head, there is a mirror, showing the thin, frail frame of his teenage self. His hair is an unruly mess, black strands obscuring his face, but not the fresh nosebleed. He is on his hands and knees and suddenly he is aware that Gunning, the man's wife, and a few official-looking shitsticks are surrounding him.

They laugh. Gunning says something about his hair, how the long black locks make him look so much like an exotic young girl. One of the men grabs Billy's arm and yanks their sleeves up, crying in amusement of the yellow pallor to Billy's skin. The man spits the word "chinaman" and Billy doesn't correct him. He never does. Another man grabs a handful of his hair and pulls him back, and Billy tries hard to think of his mother, who he is sending every last penny he earns from this worthless job to.

They pass him around like a doll. He follows Gunning's orders. Smile, boy. Stand up straight, boy. Show them what your eyes would look like if you were white, boy. Turn around, let me show them where you misbehaved, boy.

There is a knife in his hand. This is not part of the memory. This knife is silver, the handle intricate and reminiscent of Louisiana craftsmanship. 

In one swift move, he lunges forward and plunges the knife hilt-deep into the throat of the man who grabbed his arm. The woman screams and he throws a knife from his belt (where did the belt come from?) that lands between her overly plumped breasts, making a sickening red spot on her yellow gown. Another knife slams into the head of the man who pulled his hair. 

Billy is barely aware of the fact that he is laughing, wide eyed and mirthful. What fun it is, to revel in the pain of those helpless to stop it. Maybe this is why Gunning always uses Billy for entertainment.

Ah. Gunning.

The man grabs Billy by both shoulders and turns him around. He is spitting, screaming, yelling Billy's name. In response, Billy sinks the knife deep into Gunning's heart.

And then Gunning is not Gunning anymore. He is Goodnight and Billy is wide awake and his hands are covered in blood and the knife is in Goody's chest and the man's sad blue eyes are filled with betrayal and _thanks_ and--

Billy wakes up screaming this time. There is nothing calm about it.

Goodnight is by his side instantly, but Billy yelps in fear and stands, his hands held far out from his sides to keep from reaching for a knife. His eyes are wide again but there is no joy in them. 

Goody waits. He knows everything there is to know about nightmares, especially waking ones. When Billy is calm, he holds his hands out, his sad blue eyes pleading, and Billy practically collapses into them.

It's the most he's spoken since meeting Goodnight; he cries and sobs and screams to Goody about everything they did to him, everything he did in return, how satisfying it was to feel Gunning's blood on his hands, and then for a moment, to feel Goody's. The soldier's embrace only tightens with each tear-strained word.

Billy finally lets go and Goodnight lets him sink into the blankets while he fetches an opium cigarette from their things. He lights it, takes a single intake of the pungent smoke and then holds the cigarette to Billy's lips. Secret kisses, Goodnight once called it. But this one is followed by a very firm, very calming kiss to Billy's forehead. Goodnight never says a word, but Billy knows everything he means to say.

Neither sleeps til dawn. They decide to find a town and lay low, sleep on a mattress that's only marginally better than the rocky desert floor, get shitfaced in a cruddy bar, sing some drunken songs with the piano player, and pass out for the day.

No dreams ever come with a drink.

**Author's Note:**

> what the fuck this movie was fantastic?? expect more


End file.
